


On a Matter of Mercy

by Becky_Blue_Eyes



Series: A May Queen of House Tudor [1]
Category: 16th Century CE RPF, The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, F/M, Gen, Henry dies in 1536, Hindsight is 20/20, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mary becomes Queen earlier, Morally Ambiguous Character, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23558224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Becky_Blue_Eyes/pseuds/Becky_Blue_Eyes
Summary: It’s as if all the past years and its blessings have turned to sand and they slip through Anne’s fingers. Not a month ago she was Queen of England; now she must kneel at the new Queen’s feet and beg for her daughter’s life.(Perhaps if she had been a touch kinder, a touch more concerned about her unwanted stepdaughter—the power of hindsight could move mountains were it made manifest)A 1536 AU where Henry VIII dies a violent death from his jousting accident, Mary Tudor is crowned Queen with a consort at her side, and Anne Boleyn does what she must for the sake of her daughter. Past Anne/Henry, Mary/Henry Grey (I’m oddly fond of this pairing), future Elizabeth/???Note: Anne and Mary are not friendly in this story, please don’t be surprised by that
Relationships: Anne Boleyn/Henry VIII of England, Mary I of England/Henry Grey
Series: A May Queen of House Tudor [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1702213
Comments: 29
Kudos: 56





	On a Matter of Mercy

Anne cannot sleep.

How can she? Every time she closes her eyes, she remembers the joust: Henry struck from his horse, Henry falling upon a rock, Henry’s brains on that rock, Henry bleeding, Henry dying. Her own little Henry leaving in a rush of blood and tears, and her father leading her into a secured room whispering that everything was going to be alright, she just needed to wait and see.

She’s done her waiting for a full thirty days by the maid’s reckoning, and it’s all been for naught. There is a new Queen of England, and she is not Anne’s beloved Elizabeth. No, she’s Mary, sickly stubborn Spanish Mary, with a crown on her head and Henry Grey’s ring on her finger. Another Henry Tudor, this time a king consort rather than king regnant. And perhaps another Matilda or an Isabella, who can say when the coronation was two days ago?

Anne rolls over in her bed. A month and she’s not been able to leave this room. From what she’s heard from the servants, the traitorous Duke of Norfolk abandoned her father to his fate and led all the Catholics and traitors in the kingdom to Mary’s banner. She’s surprised Norfolk’s own Henry didn't marry the brat, but Hal’s already married Frances Brandon for a shot at her inheritance. Harry Gray is one of the richest men in England as well, with Woodville blood in his veins. Mary is still young and can whelp a few children to marry a Howard to soothe her turncloak uncle’s ambitions. That is unless she has her mother’s worthless womb!

She cannot be queen! She cannot be, not when Anne is still breathing and Elizabeth—Elizabeth is now under Mary’s care. Anne stifles a sudden cry. What if Mary decides to rid herself of her unwanted, truly legitimate sister? As if legitimacy matters, a little voice whispers in her gut. Kings and indeed queens are crowned every day on the flimsiest of bloodlines, just look at the House of Tudor. And Mary has blue blood on both sides of her family, with all the gold and connections they bring…what does Elizabeth have?

What does Elizabeth have that Anne can give her, save her with?

Anne rises from her bed. It is perhaps midday, judging from the window. She is in some sort of apartment in the Tower, richly furnished and with every comfort she needs aside from her daughter and her freedom. In the dresser are fine dresses, albeit none of them purple, and Anne calls for her maids. She has her tongue and her wit. She will save her daughter; she will make Mary see reason. She will, and she must.

She dresses in a muted red and forgoes cosmetics or jewelry. She knows the game she must play: throw herself at Mary’s feet, weep about being a whore or Jezebel or whatever Mary thinks of her, and beg for Elizabeth. For her darling girl, Anne will cast away her pride. Even if it means kowtowing to that wretched brat! Anne tells her lonesome page to beg an audience with the queen and bites her tongue when she shudders. Oh, what if Mary has her whipped through the streets? Burned at the stake? Mary is her death and yet it seems Anne shall not be hers.

Mary agrees to meet her directly into her rooms at eventide, and Anne forces down supper. The tender beef reminds her of how the love of her life’s head looked from the inside in. The roasted potatoes remind her of how sallow his skin turned so quickly. The salad greens dressed with truffles and mustard sauce remind her of the mixture that left her body onto the tourney field’s grass. The fine claret reminds her of the blood her Henry shed, and the blood her daughter might shed. To see her little girl on the scaffold, needing a box to reach the executioner’s ax…Anne is surprised she is not sick. Perhaps sickness has simply become her.

She awaits Mary, and exactly on the hour of eventide she comes. Her Harry is with her, and Anne sees how they share similar eyes: blue flecked with green, Plantagenet blood mixed with Woodville, a gift from a woman as hated as Anne. And Anne hates how purple becomes Mary, complementing her fiery red hair flowing freely down her back—hair so similar to Elizabeth’s, a gift from Elizabeth of York and Catherine of Lancaster. Anne wonders why Harry is here, until Mary dismisses Anne’s ladies. Ah, she is so be isolated then, and perhaps he is here to keep Anne from strangling Mary!

Mary looks down at Anne, and Anne bites her lip. She curtsies as low as she can, her forehead brushing on the carpeted floor. And she says, “Your Majesty,” in a voice so raw she hardly recognizes it for her own.

“Mistress Boleyn,” Mary says, and her own voice is bland. As if she’s talking about the weather or the state of the farms, rather than meeting with her stepmother. Anne holds in her urge to shriek, to tear at her face and demand her daughter back. Mary flicks her fingers. “You may rise, madam. And please take a seat, the physicians say you are still healing.”

Anne sits, and Mary and Harry take their own seats across from her. She despises how their shoulders touch, the simple act of Mary resting her hand on his lap. Anne and her Henry were like that, before things turned sour and the ages passed by. Were it not for the Dowager Princess of Wales’ stubborn refusal to die Anne would’ve had her love legitimized years ago—oh, it must not be Dowager Princess now, but Queen once more. Anne shall be Henry’s mistress, just as Mary always saw her. Anne holds in a desperate sob. She must save Elizabeth! She must!

“Your Majesty, I—”

“We’re afraid we’ve been a touch remiss with you, Mistress Boleyn.” Ah, the royal we then! So quickly Mary is the little _infanta!_ “We bring news of your family.” Anne holds her breath, and Mary tilts her head. Anne feels the terrible sensation of being peered at through a looking glass until all her bones must be visible. “Your father Thomas Boleyn has returned to his estates. He has been stripped of all his titles and offices, and is banished from court for the rest of his natural life. Your brother George Boleyn has also been stripped of all his titles and offices, and is too banished from court for the rest of his natural life. The Marquessate of Pembroke, as a Boleyn title, has also reverted to the crown so your new title is taken from your father, Mistress Boleyn. Your sister the Lady Mary Stafford, on account of her being a private citizen with no plots against us, has been allowed to keep what she has. Her children all have either been appointed roles in our royal household or shall be upon our heir’s birth.” Mary’s eyes narrow. “And then there is you, and your daughter the Lady Elizabeth.”

Anne’s heart quickens like a hummingbird in her wrists. Her family is alive, praise God, but left destitute and Mary’s children have been stolen from her as hostages. And then there’s her own daughter…Anne sinks to her knees before them. “I know I have done you wrong, Your Majesty. I know I did not treat you with the kindness owed to you are your stepmother, I—” Anne swallows. “I have done you and your mother the late Queen Catherine terrible hurt and I apologize with all my being.”

“Yes.” Mary folds her hands on her lap. There is such cold disdain in her eyes that it takes Anne’s breath away. “You did my sainted mother the utmost hurt, committed the utmost betrayal. What sort of loyal lady _fucks_ the husband of her mistress?” Anne flinches. She cannot yell, she cannot scream, she cannot do anything that jeopardizes her Elizabeth. But oh, it hurts to have her love with Henry reduced to such vulgarity. Mary leans forward. “What did we ever do to deserve such treatment, Mistress Boleyn? Was my mother so cruel to you? Did I offend you as a child and you sought revenge?”

“…His Majesty the late king desired me, Your Majesty. I couldn’t say no.”

“But you did. You said no and got yourself a crown in the process.” Mary stands, and Harry stands with her. She rests her head against his shoulder, and when she looks down at Anne, all Anne can see is how the twilight and the fire from the hearth make her hair glow, make the green flecks in her eyes all the more poisonous. “Did I ever cross your mind at all when you said all Spaniards should drown at the bottom of the sea? When you said perhaps God shall see it fit to tumble me down the stairs and break my neck?”

“Your Majesty, I said those things in anger—”

“When I was made to become your daughter’s servant, living in a thimble-sized attic room and slapped about by the governesses like a common laundress, did you not think of how that would feel?”

“Your royal father was the one to put you in the household. I had no say, Your Majesty—”

“And afterward? You didn’t think at all to perhaps soften his gaze towards me? To mention how such cruelty was unbecoming of a father?” Anne is silent. “Of course not. I never crossed your mind.” Mary sighs. “I’ve learned a few things this past month.” She looks out the window, over the river Thames and over glittering London. Over the kingdom Anne had so many hopes for. “I learned how people can be desperate, how they’ll say anything and agree to anything. I’ve had men offer to kill you and your family for my favor,” Mary looks back at Anne and Anne’s hands shake in her skirts. Oh God, protect her and her daughter! “I’ve had marriage offers for Elizabeth from the lowliest of loyal men to sully her prospects at gaining the throne. I’ve had your odious father beg on his hands and knees for your lives, offering his own in exchange. As if he was ever worth that much.”

Oh, Papa. Anne’s eyes well with tears. “Please,” she whispers, “don’t hurt my daughter. Elizabeth is just a girl, a little girl! She cannot harm you!”

“How old was I when you met my father? Ten? Not so much older than Elizabeth in the grand scheme of the world.” Mary turns to Harry and smiles; it’s so terrifying to see such tenderness on her face, in her eyes, when she has Elizabeth’s life in her hands. “You would’ve been eleven. Did you even know who I was then?”

“Everyone knew of our princess,” he murmurs. He kisses her hand. “I only wish I had come to know you sooner, so I could’ve rescued you from that torment.”

“You already have.” Mary smiles at him once more. Then she turns back to Anne and her expression cools to somewhere between marble and granite. “Everyone knew of me, even people across the seas. France is not so far away that I was unknown. So I ask again, Mistress Boleyn: did I ever cross your mind at all? Did you think of me when you went about to tear my family apart?”

Anne presses her head to the floor and stretches her arms out in supplication. “I did not,” she begs. “I did not! I’m sorry, forgive me Your Majesty!” It is a lie. Anne did think of Mary, she felt hurt when Mary called her a whore to her face and apprehension when Henry put her in Elizabeth’s household and pity when Mary made herself sick in her obstinacy. Now she feels terror like nothing else outside of the birthing bed. “Forgive me! Spare Elizabeth, please! Mercy!”

“Suppose I were at your feet and a crown on your head. Would you give me mercy?” Anne cannot answer that. Her Christian heart would be softened by Mary weeping on the floor before her…and her jealous protective mother’s heart would be finding a convent to throw her in. A convent for her to rot and die in quietly—will that be Elizabeth’s fate? Mary kneels before her, and asks in a mockery of gentleness, “Why should I give Elizabeth mercy when you never gave me any?”

Anne begs. Anne begs for her daughter, she kisses the hem of Mary’s dress and her throat burns with her pleading. She denounces herself as a whore, a traitor to the realm, nothing more than a gutter strumpet. She swears to disavow herself in front of all of London, to whip herself bloody in the streets naked, to throw herself into the sea—anything Mary wants, she will give her. As long as Elizabeth lives, as long as her little girl lives, by God and all the angels in heaven, as long as Elizabeth lives Anne will suffer and be joyous!

Eventually, Mary holds up her hand. “I understand, Mistress Boleyn. I do.” She gives her a handkerchief, and Anne burns with misery. “I know most of my suffering was my father’s doing. I found his personal diaries and correspondence. It seems if you never thought of me at all, he certainly did, and they were not kind thoughts.” Mary looks out the window again. Anne swears she can see the faintest hint of a frown at her brow, a subtle downturn of her lips. “It does not absolve you, but my anger with you was mostly displaced. It seems hate and callousness had swallowed my father years before I was even born. I won’t blame you for his own cruelty.”

“Your Majesty…” Anne cannot dare hope for clemency. And it hurts her to hear Mary speak of Henry this way, even if it’s true. But if this tempers Mary’s anger into mercy for Elizabeth…

“I admit, I was of a mind to execute you and put Elizabeth in a convent. A quick way to solve my problems.” Mary rises and holds Harry’s hand. “But I remembered how Elizabeth was the only light in that hellhole at Hatfield. The only one to give me kindness and love, to her I was not a so-called bastard but just her sister. My darling Bess,” she murmurs, and Anne clasps her hands together. Please, please! “She is entirely innocent, and she is my sister. I would like her to give that same love and kindness to my own children, her nieces and nephews.” Mary rests a hand on her stomach and Harry smiles and Anne’s heart squeezes. Mary is with child, when Anne bled hers out through her fingers. How much more pain will God see fit for Anne to bear?! But she makes herself congratulate Mary—if it means Elizabeth lives, she will kiss the babe’s feet if she must!

“It helps, of course, that you are willing to accept what we have in store. We’ve come to a decision,” and back to the royal distanced we. “The Lady Elizabeth shall be made Countess of Pembroke, Baroness Rochford, and raised in the royal household with her cousins by the Lady Stafford. If need be, she may be fostered with a loyal family. Upon her fourteenth birthday she shall be betrothed to a man we find loyal and true, and married upon her sixteenth.” Mary smiles. “She will want for nothing as long as she is my beloved and loyal sister.”

The ax hangs above Anne’s neck. If Elizabeth so much as whispers treason, this comfortable life shall be taken from her and she sent to a nunnery or the Tower to rot, Anne knows this as she would’ve done the same with Mary. “As for you…” Mary tilts her head. “Kimbolton Castle has been prepared for you.”

Anne bows her head. Mary lists the creature comforts of her new prison, how she will have ladies paid for by Mary and be allowed to write to her family as their correspondence shall be reviewed. Perhaps in time she will even see Elizabeth again…but she will never leave that castle. Anne knows this without needing to be told. If Catherine of Aragon didn’t, then neither shall her successor. Anne chokes out, “You humble me with your generosity, Your Majesty.”

“I’d like to think this is what my mother would have offered you…but in truth I think she would’ve had you burned.” Mary twirls a piece of flaming hair on her little finger. “My father would’ve done the same, and so would have your own parents had I been the ones begging for my life. My reign is new and I don’t want to see anyone burned today. But make no mistake, Anne Boleyn—you will do well to live quietly in _retirement.”_ Mary is quiet, and the silence stretches between them like a hangman’s noose, like an ax on the sharpening stone. Then she says in a low voice, “You are the mother of my only sister and she has your eyes. For that alone, you get to live. Do not give reason for Bess to regret that.”

It is not the scaffold; it is not the pyre. It is a slow lingering death and Anne shall grin and bear this gentle execution.

And bear it she does. She haunts Kimbolton without so much as a whisper of wishing to leave its stone walls and fenlands. She writes her letters to her father and siblings, she learns of how her Papa died of gout on her mother’s birthday and how George’s wife abandoned him and how George then moved to Delft in self-exile to try and make a new living and life there. She learns of how Mary’s children all marry well after Mary’s death, even the Stafford children. She learns of Elizabeth—how intelligent she is, how quick-witted, how the little Lady Pembroke is a star at court.

She learns of how Queen Mary and her Harry have five children, two sons and three daughters. Another Henry, another Catherine; a Thomas and a Jane and a Bridget. All of them Tudor-Grey roses, with greenish eyes and red hair and sharp little chins. She learns of the Scottish queen for Henry to temper the Danish king for Catherine, of course, and then the German duchess for Thomas and the Portuguese heir for Jane and an Irish high lord for Bridget. Fine marriages that Anne would’ve loved to make for her own children, excepting the throwaway for Bridget. Who knew Mary would let her child have a love marriage when she abhorred Anne’s own love choice, when she would’ve had Henry languish in a marriage to Catherine of Aragon with but a single girl for an heir? She learns of how perhaps she doesn’t know Mary at all, not from the way Elizabeth writes of her darling older sister who rides with her and gifts her endless books and tutors.

She learns of how the people love their Queen Mary and their King Harry, how England blooms with growing commerce and public education, how the Reformation withers on the vine and a strange Tolerant Catholicism takes its place—it seems Harry is quite the charismatic moderate and Mary so loves her own Henry enough to listen to her consort’s advice. Henry never listened to Anne, nor to the old Catherine. They are not a passionate pair like Anne and her Henry, none shall ever match their love. But it seems that Mary and Harry’s love is good for England, and Anne _hates_ it as much as she’s _relieved_ for it. Elizabeth deserves a strong country to live in, even if it should be her parents at the helm.

Time passes like this, and eventually her vitriol towards Mary fades into a quiet sort of unsettled regret. What if she had indeed cared more about that unwanted stepdaughter of hers, what if she had swallowed her hurt and pride and asked Henry to not degrade her? Oh, she doubts he would’ve listened—the years of solitude have shaken the scales from her eyes and she now knows what kind of fool she married. A fool and a monster, who may have been her end if he sought to replace her with that long-gone Seymour whore as the courtiers used to rumor. Maybe she should have stayed in France, should have run away with Henry Percy, should have done anything but be swept by a whirling of passion so sweetly scented it hid its lingering burns.

So Anne regrets, and is thankful because Mary seems to be nothing but kind to Elizabeth. Elizabeth, her sweet daughter, true to Mary’s word she’s wanted for nothing. How quick Anne was to think Mary was lying…but how quick Mary herself was to think the worst of Anne in return. How quick they were to be cruel to each other, when it was so unneeded.

Mary lets Elizabeth visit Anne once Elizabeth turns eight. Four times a year for two weeks each time and always a visit on Anne’s birthday. To Anne’s eyes it’s a new Elizabeth than the one before. She grows up, from a little girl babbling about her dolls to a woman conversing in French and Greek and German. A beauty she is, with her pale skin and fiery hair and dark eyes, and a fierce spirit to match that’s never been broken down or humbled—Anne’s heart overwhelms itself with love. Her darling girl, now a darling woman to marry her love Robert Dudley at royal expense…Elizabeth wipes at Anne’s tears and says, “Don’t cry, Mama. I’m happy, I promise, this wasn’t forced upon me. I cannot wait for you to meet my Robin, you’ll love him. Perhaps my sister the queen will let you move in with us, I can ask, she loves to dote upon me and Annie and Cathy.”

Anne holds her close. She imagines living with Elizabeth, bouncing grandchildren on her knee, and is close to weeping again. Her daughter is alive, and happy by her own word. She will marry and have children and a life, Elizabeth is alive and gets to _live._ This is more than Anne could’ve ever hoped for when her darling love broke his head apart upon a stone and upended her life; this is a mercy that she never expected to have.

**Author's Note:**

> The ending has a bit of a wonky timeline because I messed up, but I’ll clarify: Elizabeth marries Robert Dudley when she’s sixteen and when Princess Bridget is about...four-ish. When Bridget herself is seventeen she marries an Earl Kildare of Ireland for love as well as the Earl being the de-facto leader of Ireland and keeping the island less rebellion-y; imagine an age-appropriate Gerald FitzGerald sweeping Bridget off her feet. So Elizabeth marries first, before any of Mary's children, even though Anne thinks about them first. Sorry about that, but I can't figure out how to clean it up
> 
> Full disclaimer: I am a Mary fan and I’m not a fan of Anne or Jane Seymour. I straight-up hate Henry but tbh who doesn’t?
> 
> I know no one really can say no to a king demanding their love (and bodies), and that Henry was looking for a way out of his marriage to Catherine for years…but Anne still was guilty for her part in that. Not to mention that my parents’ relationship and the breakup of it was very similar to Henry and Catherine and Anne. That makes me the Mary, and very sympathetic to her character (even if she probably would’ve burned me at the stake for heresy, they all would’ve lmao). Maybe I’m biased because of that mess, I’ll admit it. 
> 
> And later on when Jane did the same thing to Anne what Anne did to Catherine and Anne lost her head in BS trumped up charges because Henry didn’t even give her the chance to set herself aside…they all suck. Tudor politicking be like that sometimes. Henry is the source of all these problems so I smashed his head in as he deserved, good riddance to bad trash.
> 
> With all that said, Anne loved her daughter Elizabeth and doted upon her and I always felt sad that she never got to see her child grow up and that she died an unjust death; at least Catherine got around 15ish years with Mary before she was officially forbidden from seeing her and then rotted away in the More and Kimbolton. So in this story, Anne gets to live to see (through yearly visits and letters) Elizabeth grow up, live the happiest life she could in her circumstances, fall in love with a boy who thankfully will never muster enough power to challenge Mary—everyone kinda wins in that they don’t die? 
> 
> I believe after having an heir (who is married to Queen Mary of Scots, that’ll be very interesting) and a spare; two daughters as queens of allied countries; and years of silence on Anne’s end, Mary will let Anne move in with Elizabeth and Robin on the Pembroke estates. Anne then can live out the rest of her days with her daughter and grandchildren and live a quiet comfortable life. It’s no marriage to Henry Percy, but she’ll be happy.


End file.
